“Are you dressed?” Lucas said, the click of the adjacent cubicle door like a shotgun up his spine.
“W-What? Yes.”
“Then can we stop talking through the wall?”
“Tell me when you spoke to my brother and I’ll consider it.”
There was a hum, followed by Lucas’ heavy foot-fall across the wooden boards. “That’s top secret intelligence,” he said, voice farther away.
Oliver’s mouth twitched. “Hecame toyou. Didn’t he?”
“I’m afraid I’m not authorised to share that information.” Lucas chuckled.
Shoulders drooping, Oliver finally admitted defeat as he unlocked the door. Stepping into the dimly lit hut, he found Lucas holding open the door to the park. He letout an exhausted sigh before padding towards the alpha.
“Well, I’m afraid there’s only one Italian restaurant that I like. And it’s got a month-long waiting list. Even for takeaway.”
Lucas cocked an eyebrow as he let Oliver slip past. “Bella Italia, yes?”
“How do you—oh for fuck’s sake,” he said, taking a sharp left and immediately breaking into a jog.
“I’ve booked a table for eight o’clock tomorrow evening,” Lucas called after him. “I was going to ask you after work, but you never came back.”
Oliver slowed, then stopped as he turned on the spot. The alpha hadn’t followed.
“How the fuck did you get a table?” He called across the park.
Lucas tapped the side of his nose with a grin.“I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”
Oliver flushed. “No!I’llpickyouup at seven thirty!”
Lucas tipped his head. “You have a car?”
Oliver gave a wolfish grin. “Oh yes, I have a car. A very nice car, actually!”
Because if he had learned anything in the short time he’d known the six foot five sexy mafia boss, it was that he needed an exit strategy if things turned fruity. That, and he wanted to watch Lucas try to squash himself into his little yellow Citroen.
“Seven thirty!” Oliver called, turning his back on the alpha. “Don’t be late.”
ELEVEN
LADY & THE TRAMP
By some miracle, Oliver avoided interviewing any more children the following day. Perhaps it was divine intervention, or just a dodgy lasagne, but the foster placement called at eight o’clock on the dot to inform him that both Hattie and Amil had stomach bugs.No horrible ex-boyfriend reunions today, thanks very much.
Although, he’d have almost taken the horrible ex-boyfriend if it meant getting out of his current predicament.Almost. Because as it turned out, ‘Aunty Joanne’ was not actually Alfie’s aunt at all. She was a well-known drug dealer with a hotline that ran out of a semi-detached bungalow in the middle of a retirement village. She introduced herself to the custody sergeant as ‘Mary Joanna Cocana,’ which Oliver thought was fucking hilarious, given that her main products were marijuana and coke.
“Pass the shears, love,” Nancy said, her heavily booted feet balancing precariously on his shoulders.
“Nance, I can’t hold you up and reach across the room for the shears. You’ll have to rip the plants out with your hands and drop them through the loft hatch.”
Nancy tutted. “I’m not ripping them out with my hands. I’ll get a rash.”
“I told you to double-fucking-glove,love,” he replied, gripping her ankles. “Get down and I’ll do it.”
Other officers worked around them, tearing down the metal fans, foil pipes and makeshift plastic canopy that contained just one tiny portion of the cultivation. Oliver had to admit that the set-up was fairly impressive, with its homemade hydroponic system and carefully timed lighting rig. It wasalmosta shame they had to tear it all down.Almost.
By the time they’d finished for the day, Oliver’s back and shoulders ached so badly he was thinking about cancelling his not-date with Lucas—because not even the call of carbonara and a booster dose of paracetamol could take away the discomfort. Plus, his face and arms were banged up from crawling through vents and being elbow deep in plant-matter all day.
